Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

Steering Is Not Biased

Stepping outside the Karachi Theosophical Society gates, I spotted a weathered yellow taxi idling near the towering Radio Pakistan Building. I crossed the chaotic flow of M.A. Jinnah Road and knocked sharply on the driver’s window, disturbing an elderly man resting inside.

Startled, the driver blinked awake and instantly recognized a fare. He cranked the glass downward, gesturing with a sweeping palm toward the back seat. I slid inside.

“Gulshan,” I stated.

Without uttering a single sound, the man nodded once, gripped the steering wheel, and swung the vehicle back onto M.A. Jinnah Road.

Heavy silence filled the cabin.

“You look exhausted,” I observed.

“Yes, I am,” he sighed.

“Do you work night shifts?”

“No.”

“Then what causes this exhaustion?”

“I train students at a driving academy, and my shifts begin before dawn,” he explained.

“How does that work?”

“Four instructors manage the academy. Morning checks consume my earliest hours.”

“What checks?”

“A lengthy checklist exists, but crucial steps come first.”

“Name them,” I urged.

Pausing briefly, the veteran driver continued, “A good driver always parks the car facing outward at home or the office. That simple habit saves precious minutes every morning. Second, ensure all exterior lights and indicators remain switched off.”

“What follows?”

“Before cranking the ignition, walk completely around the vehicle. Inspect tire tread depth and check tire pressure.”

“That completes the first set?”

“Correct.”

“What constitutes the second set of instructions?”

“Lift the engine bonnet. Verify oil levels, brake fluid status, radiator coolant, and battery water.”

“Where did you acquire such discipline?”

“Experience,” he replied simply. “Years ago, I drove heavy transport for an oil exploration company deep in the Kirthar Range.”

“You learned everything there?”

“Indeed,” he affirmed with a slow nod.

“People talk constantly about good drivers. Tell me about the bad ones.”

Chuckling softly, he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead on the pavement. “The list of bad driving habits exceeds the good ones.”

“Share a few.”

“Poor parkers are bad drivers. They frustrate everyone. They shift back and forth three times, and they never utilize side mirrors and rear windows to finish the job efficiently.”

“What final advice do you offer motorists?”

“Machines demand respect and regular maintenance. Treat your car like a loyal companion. Invest proper attention, and peace of mind returns the favor. A well-maintained vehicle never fails during critical moments.”

“One final question. Society often claims women make terrible drivers. Is that accurate?”

“False,” he countered firmly. “Driving success depends entirely on situational awareness—comprehending the immediate road network, merging traffic, peak hours, and surrounding obstacles. Gender matters far less than geographic awareness. Give women more space and public opportunity, and they excel.”

He paused, gripping the wheel tighter. “Machines possess no gender bias. Car technology and mechanical parts do not favor men or create mechanical failures specifically for women. Society shapes how women receive training and how public perception views them.”

Grateful for his practical maintenance wisdom and his progressive perspective on women drivers, I adjusted my seat.

“Please drop me at the NIPA crossing instead,” I requested.

He delivered me smoothly to the destination, and I handed over the agreed fare.

____________________ 

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33, Part-34, Part-35,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

The Republic of Bystandism

The sky over University Road didn’t just hold rain; it bruised. Heavy, graphite clouds hung so low they seemed to scrape the tops of the decaying concrete plazas. Below them, the streetlamps bled a sickly, sulfurous yellow onto the wet asphalt. I stood on the curb, the chill biting through my collar, frantically flagging down the yellow Mehran cabs splashing past toward NIPA. If the storm broke now, the city would drown, and my cubicle would remain a distant shore.

A battered taxi, its yellow paint peeling like sunburned skin, skidded to a halt. I wrenched the door open and threw myself into the back seat, cutting off the bite of the wind.

The interior smelled of old tobacco, damp vinyl, and unspoken grievances. We rode in a heavy, shifting silence as the engine rattled violently past the dome of the PIA Planetarium. Through the cracked rearview mirror, the driver’s eyes locked onto mine. They were deep-set, dark, and heavy with the exhaustion of a man who saw too much of Karachi’s underbelly.

“Need petrol,” he grunted, his voice like grinding gears.

“The next pump is right there,” I said, gesturing toward the brilliant, fluorescent glow of a commercial station a thousand yards ahead.

He grunted a refusal, swung the wheel hard to the left, and veered down a fractured side street. “Not that one. The pumps there are rigged by ghosts.”

“A favorite spot of yours, then? Do you get a kickback?”

“No. Just the truth.”

We rolled into a dimly lit, skeletal filling station that looked like a relic of a forgotten decade. A lone attendant, wrapped in a frayed shawl, moved like a phantom in the gloom. The driver didn’t ask for a full tank. He simply held up three fingers: “Six hundred rupees.”

As the pump clicked, I leaned forward, resting my hands on the frayed fabric of the front seat. “Why this ghost town? The other station is brighter, faster.”

“The meter runs true here,” the driver said, not looking back. “In this city, an honest meter is a revolutionary act. You get what you pay for. The fuel isn’t stretched with kerosene.”

“Fuel economy is just mechanics,” I argued, playing the skeptic to draw him out. “It’s about your engine’s efficiency.”

He slotted the car into first gear and slammed his foot down, pulling us back into the chaotic arteries of the morning traffic. “A clean engine dies on dirty blood. It’s not mechanics, my friend. It’s politics. Irani petrol floods the veins of this province, and the state is the junkie.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. “How does a syndicate that massive operate in broad daylight?” I asked.

A humorless smirk cut across his weathered face. “Because everyone takes their communion. The border guards open the gates, customs agents lose their ledger books, the pump owners fix the price, and the bureaucrats sign the permits in air-conditioned offices. It’s a beautifully orchestrated machine. A democracy of thieves.”

He swerved violently to avoid a pooling pothole, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“They have a hierarchy for the poison,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave. “The highway trucks get the sludge. The second-tier, diluted garbage goes straight to the fringes—the katchi abadis. They pump it into Shirin Jinnah, Gadap, Sohrab Goth. They choke the poorest neighborhoods first, because the poor don’t have the paperwork to complain.”

“An absolute institutional collapse,” I murmured, staring at the blurred landscape of concrete and power lines.

“Collapse? No, it’s a masterpiece. It works perfectly for the people who designed it.” He suddenly pointed out the window toward a ramshackle wooden cigarette cabin on the corner, where a vendor was lighting a match. “Look at him. Go ask that man how the tankers sneak past the toll plazas at midnight. He will draw you a perfect map, complete with the names of the officers on duty. He knows everything.”

“Then why doesn’t anyone speak up?”

“Because if you ask that same man to stand as a witness? To sign a complaint? He will change his tune, look at his shoes, and tell you he has a family to feed. We have plenty of analysts in Karachi, but no martyrs.”

The taxi screeched to a final halt outside my office block. The corporate glass facade reflected the dark, unforgiving sky.

“Corruption doesn’t survive because of the men at the top,” the driver whispered, finally turning around to face me as I handed him his fare. “It survives because our morality has a price tag. We trade our outrage for an easy life.”

“Then how do we break a machine like that?” I asked, holding his gaze.

“You can’t educate a spine into a man,” he said softly. “Society lacks the moral courage to fight the very monster it feeds.”

I stepped out into the damp, heavy air. As the yellow taxi vanished into the grey morning gridlock, his words remained behind, echoing like thunder over the roar of the city.

_____________________

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

No Other Way to Live

The rain fell on 26th Street. It washed the dust off the leaves of the sukh-chain tree and turned the asphalt black.

I stood under the tin roof of the petrol pump. It smelled of wet gravel and cheap fuel. A yellow cab pulled up to the curb. The tires hissed against the wet road. I opened the door.

“Gulshan,” I said.

The driver nodded. He shifted gears. We rolled into the grey light.

At the intersection, the driver slowed. He checked his side mirror. His hand moved the wheel left. He guided the heavy car close to the concrete edge of the footpath. He stopped. He waited.

I looked back. I expected the red lights of a police vehicle. I saw none. Instead, a white sedan cruised past our bumper. A woman sat at the wheel. She looked thirty. Her hands were steady on the plastic grip. She saw the space. She blinked her indicator and slipped parallel to us. We waited for the red signal to die.

The light turned green. She moved. We moved.

“You always give them room?” I asked.

He did not look back. “Always.”

“Why?”

The driver watched the road. He adjusted his grip. “My mother raised me. My father died early.” He paused. The wipers swept the glass. Squeak. Squeak. “And there was Zahida.”

“I do not know him,” I said.

“A woman,” the driver corrected. His voice held a quiet weight. “A great woman. Zahida Kazmi. The first.”

“Tell me.”

The taxi crossed the bridge. Below us, the railway tracks cut through the wet earth like cold iron.

“I got my permit last year,” the driver said. “At the Rawalpindi airport. I saw her there. She lined her car up with the men. A yellow cab. Just like ours.”

“What did you think?”

“We laughed. We thought the game would end in a week. We were wrong.”

“She stayed?”

“She never missed a day. We called her Zahida Madam.”

“Why Madam?”

“She was our President,” he said. He sat a little straighter. “We elected her. Chairperson of the All Pakistan Yellow Cab Federation. Twelve years she held the seat.”

The rain grew heavier. It drummed on the tin roof of the taxi.

“In 1992, she began,” the driver said. “A world of men. She wore a heavy burqa. She carried a loaded weapon in the glovebox.”

“A gun?”

“For safety. But the burqa scared the passengers. They stayed away. So she dropped the veil. She wore the hijab. Later, she uncovered her head. The city grew to know her face.”

“Where did she come from?”

“Peshawar. A hard family. Pashtun. They married her off at thirteen.”

“A child,” I said.

“A child,” he agreed. “Then Karachi. 1972. Her husband worked in the Navy. But the war of 1971 had broken things. Her husband survived the camps. He returned. He taught her to drive. Then he died in 1981.”

“She had children?”

“Six. Four girls. Two boys. She washed floors. She worked the looms in the cloth mills. But the money was thin. In the late eighties, the streets of Karachi turned violent. Blood on the pavement. She took the children and fled north to Rawalpindi.”

“And she drove.”

“She drove. First school vans. Then the airport. She drove the high mountain roads. Swat. Chitral. The high passes of Waziristan. Even the tribal elders respected her. In 1995, she married again. She had another daughter. But she kept the wheel.”

The driver stopped at a dark crossing. The houses here were old, built of yellow brick.

“Then her health failed her,” the driver said. His voice dropped. “The brain. 2015. A hemorrhage. High blood pressure. Diabetes. Her legs grew weak. She sold the taxi to buy her medicine. It was a dark year.”

“The end?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “The people remembered. They made a page on the computer. By May 2016, they bought her a new van. She went back to the schools. She kept driving.”

He pulled the cab to the curb. The ride was over. I handed him the fare and thanked him for such an inspiring story.

“She remained in the seat,” I said.

“She did,” he said.

I stepped out into the rain. The yellow cab merged into the grey traffic, moving east, steady and slow.

______________

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

Lucky Numbers

The sun hung low over Karachi. The heat was heavy. I left the flat and raised my hand. A yellow taxi stopped by the curb.

I froze at the door. The driver sat behind the wheel. His appearance stopped me. Wild dark hair was parted down the middle. Heavy silver rings caught the harsh sun. His left hand held four rings; his right hand held three. Thick stones of blue Neishabur turquoise and red Yemeni aqeeq sat on his fingers. Three rings occupied his right index finger, middle finger, and ring finger. The left hand showed the exact same pattern.

“Gulshan-e-Iqbal,” I spoke through the window.

“Five hundred and fifty rupees.” His voice was low.

The price was fair. The engine rattled. The car pulled into the thick traffic.

“What is your name?” I leaned forward.

The driver did not look back. He pointed one ringed finger toward the roof of the cab.

“Praise belongs only to the Almighty. I am a mere Faqir. A worthless man has no name to speak of.”

The dust filled the cab. The air smelled of old petrol. It brought a sudden ache for old places.

“You wear an odd number of rings,” I remarked. “Seven in total. Four on the left. Three on the right. What is the mystery?”

“Numbers hold the truth,” he murmured. “Odd numbers carry respect. The numbers one and five hold the highest reverence.”

“Why is that?”

“One is the absolute unity. It is God. Five represents the pillars of the faith and the five daily prayers. It honors the Panjtan Pak.”

“But you wear seven rings, not five.”

“Look closer. Count the fingers with rings. Three on the right. Four on the left.” He spoke with total conviction. The car bumped over a pothole.

“Tell me more about these numbers.”

“Seven hundred and eighty-six is the most sacred,” he replied. “It is the weight of the holy words: Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem. Then comes seven. The soul climbs seven stages to reach the light. And forty is the number of completion. A dervish sits in the chilla for forty days—forty days of hunger, silence, and prayer in the dark.”

“What about lucky numbers?”

“Every soul has its own number. Man, woman, or child.”

“What is yours?”

The driver went silent. The city moved past the windows in a blur of gray concrete.

“Three,” he finally whispered.

“Why three?”

“A holy man told me so at a shrine festival in Punjab. I asked him why. The Faqir laughed. He told me all good things arrive in threes.”

“The Christians say three represents the Trinity,” I noted. “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

“I know nothing of Esa,” the driver stated. “But three stands firm. It is stable. It is fortunate.”

He gestured to the empty cabin. “Remove my seat. What remains? Three seats. One in the front. Two in the back. A perfect balance. And look at the license plate of this car. The number three appears twice.”

The rattling of the old taxi shifted my thoughts. My mind traveled back to 1918, to a cold English hospital room. Srinivasa Ramanujan lay dying of tuberculosis in his bed. His Cambridge mentor, G.H. Hardy, walked into the room. Hardy lacked words for small talk. He mentioned his ride, noting the taxi bore the dull number 1729. He called it an uninspired, small number.

The dying genius did not hesitate. He needed no pencil; he needed no paper. Ramanujan sat up against his pillows. He corrected the professor instantly. He called 1729 a magical number. It was the smallest integer in the universe expressible as the sum of two cubes in two different ways. In a flash of light, Ramanujan saw that one cubed plus twelve cubed made 1729, and nine cubed plus ten cubed also made 1729. Hardy sat stunned.

I looked at the driver’s reflection in the mirror.

“Mathematicians have a famous number just for cabs,” I told him. “They call it the Taxicab Number. It is 1729.”

The driver stared at the road ahead. He did not understand the mathematics, but he understood the mystery.

“God knows best,” he sighed.

The car slowed down near the bustling intersection.

“Stop here. Near the NIPA stop.”

I paid the fare, stepped out into the heavy Karachi heat, and watched the taxi disappear into the dust.

____________________ 

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

Dhaka Speaks, Karachi Shouts

The taxi stood at the curb. I waved once. The driver did not stop. I waved again. He slowed. I climbed in.

Clouds hung low over Karachi. Winter waited nearby. The wind moved dry across the street. It carried no moisture today.

The driver looked back. His face held lines from many years. I doubted he was Bihari or Bengali. So, I asked a blind question: “How is Bihar these days?”

That question led to a conversation.

He turned his eyes to the road. “Babu, I am Bengali.”

A small smile came. He nodded. “A man of Bangla Bondo. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman.”

He stayed quiet after that. Reserved. I spoke of my visits—Jagannath Hall, the University of Dhaka, Dhanmandi, and the Shaheed Minar for the language martyrs.

His shoulders eased. He became another man.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Since Bhutto’s time. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto.”

He had not returned to Bangladesh. Not once. Yet he held a Pakistani passport and had crossed the border five or six times.

“Your family?”

“Two wives. One in Dhaka. One in Karachi. Both Bengali. The children in Dhaka speak Bangla. The ones in Karachi speak Urdu.”

He drove steady. The engine hummed low.

“Driving a taxi adds to my earnings. My real job is in government service—the industries department.”

Traffic thickened. Horns rose around us. I asked about the cities. He did not understand at first. I tried again. “How do you see the transport in Dhaka and Karachi?”

He smiled. “There is no Nizam (system) in Karachi.”

In Dhaka, buses ran many routes. Most were old. People knew them by the owner’s name and the paint on their sides. Some companies gave franchises to operators.

He cleared his throat. “Local buses stop anywhere. Passengers step on and off. Direct buses run straight. They save time.”

Karachi had none of that.

I asked what else Dhaka offered that Karachi missed.

He looked ahead. “Dhaka is Dhaka. Karachi is Karachi. One city speaks Bangla with one voice. The other carries noise in many tongues.”

I kept the talk on transport. He understood.

“The Buriganga River gives Dhaka something special.”

I waited.

“Thousands travel by water every day. Ferries, launches, water buses, small boats—they carry people from villages and suburbs into the city. Cargo vessels and barges bring goods straight to markets along the banks.”

He spoke with quiet pride. I had never pictured it quite like that.

“The river connects to the big waterways: Dhaleswari, Meghna, Padma.”

For short distances in Dhaka, men pulled bicycles and rickshaws. In Karachi, taxis and rickshaws served any distance. Rules decided the right vehicle for the right road.

He gave examples. Three-wheelers ran outside central Dhaka, carrying five passengers. Legunas—small converted trucks—took eleven or fourteen people for medium runs.

I asked what he thought worked best.

He thought for a moment. His face changed, and light came into it. “My friends and family in Dhaka still love the train. Kamalapur Station stays important. People move through it with hope.”

Joy touched his words. I was not sure if it came from having the correct answers or from a deep love for his motherland—Sonar Bangla, Golden Bengal.

The taxi moved on through the Karachi streets. The dry wind pressed against the windows. He drove with steady hands. Two homes. Two cities. One heart that never left the river.

I paid him at the end. He nodded once, respectful. We parted.

_______________________ 

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

The Road to Jackson Market

The “Road to Jackson Market” exercise continued as an on-and-off activity in my life. I used to believe regular walking was enough. Age proved me wrong. My body demanded movement; my mind accepted the truth. Exercise was no longer a choice—it had become a necessity.

Those were different days. Long walks along Karachi’s footpaths were difficult. Public parks were few, and time was scarce. Home seemed like the only practical place to work out.

A friend offered a solution. “Go to Jackson Market. You will find exercise machines there. The prices are better than anywhere else.”

The suggestion stayed with me.

That evening, I stepped out of the office. The sun had begun its slow descent, but heat still floated above the road. A yellow taxi waited across the street. I opened the door and settled into the back seat.

“Jackson Market.”

The driver nodded. The engine growled, and the taxi rolled into the stream of traffic.

It was my first journey to Jackson. The roads toward Keamari were unfamiliar, and curiosity soon broke the silence.

“Do you know Jackson Market?”

The driver kept his eyes on the road as a decorated cargo truck thundered past us in the opposite lane. “Very well. It is the city’s old seaside bazaar.”

“What makes it old?”

“You have never been there?”

“No.”

His hands rested firmly on the steering wheel. “It is famous for smuggled electronics, customs-auctioned goods, imported bicycles, leather jackets, cameras, and household appliances. You can find almost anything.”

“Does it depend on luck?”

He smiled and tapped the faded leather jacket across his chest. “For example, look at this jacket. Good quality, small price.”

I looked at the cracked leather. Years of use had polished its surface more than any factory could.

“What is the fare?”

“Four hundred for Jackson, brother.”

I shook my head. “I belong to Karachi; I am not a tourist. Give me the real price. Two hundred and fifty.”

A loud laugh filled the taxi, and the engine rattled beneath us. “Sahib, heavy trailers own this road. One mistake and we become biscuits beneath their wheels.” He paused, another smile crossing his face. “Fine. Two hundred and fifty.”

The taxi gathered speed.

Keamari unfolded before us. Warehouses stretched across the port, rust covered old cranes, and salt drifted through the open window. The sea breeze carried a heavy mix of diesel, iron, and tidewater.

The driver slipped between giant cargo trucks. Each vehicle wore brilliant paintings. Mirrors glittered, chains swung beneath colorful bumpers, and brass bells danced with every bump. Massive tires rolled right beside us—inches separated steel from steel.

The taxi darted forward, and my hands tightened around the seat.

Colonial buildings appeared beside the road, their faded walls carrying the weight of another century. Broken balconies leaned toward the harbor, and old windows watched ships enter and leave.

The driver glanced into the rearview mirror. “You are buying a television or a bicycle?”

“Neither. I only want an exercise machine, if the price is reasonable.”

He released a long breath. “Jackson has changed.”

“What changed?”

“The oil terminal. The Karachi Port. New port infrastructure. Heavy traffic is everywhere now. Customers struggle to even reach the market.” Outside, endless trailers crawled toward the docks. Horns echoed across the harbor, and dust floated thick above the road.

He continued, “Still, no place beats Jackson. Air conditioners, refrigerators, washing machines, televisions, imported bicycles, cameras… every lane hides another bargain. But one piece of advice.”

I leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Do not buy from the shops near the entrance. They study your face, then they double the price.”

“Where should I go?”

“Walk deep into the lanes. Tell them your friend lives in the Jetty area. They may offer you the real smuggled discount.”

Before I could answer, he swung sharply left. The taxi squeezed through a narrow gap between trailers, the engine roaring.

Jackson Market appeared without warning.

Narrow lanes, crowded shops, hanging signboards, towers of cardboard boxes, and stacks of bicycles, refrigerators, air conditioners, washing machines, televisions, and cameras. Voices floated through the market like waves striking a harbor wall.

He pulled up beside the entrance. I handed him two hundred and fifty rupees.

He accepted the notes, a broad smile spreading across his betel-stained face. One playful wink completed the bargain. The taxi spun around in one smooth turn, and within seconds, it disappeared into the roaring port traffic.

I stood alone at the entrance of Jackson Market. The salty wind brushed my face. Somewhere inside those crowded lanes waited an exercise machine—and more importantly, another side of Karachi waited to be discovered.

_______________________ 

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

Back to Basics

For two years, Karachi had waited for rain. The clouds came from the Arabian Sea. They rose beyond the port and crossed the coast in slow black lines. The wind first brought salt. Then dust. Then the smell of wet earth, though the earth had not yet received a drop.

At half past five, my friends and I left the office.

The first rain was thin. It touched the face like a memory. A cool wind moved through the streets. The city looked younger under the early lights. Even the broken pavements seemed less tired.

We found a tea stall at the corner of Neelam Colony. It stood under a rusted tin roof. Beside it, a man fried pakoras in a black pan. Another arranged samosas behind a cloudy glass case. Oil hissed. Tea boiled. Rain tapped the roof.

It was the right place for such an evening.

We drank tea from small glasses. We ate pakoras with green chutney. We spoke of books. Each man carried a writer in his pocket. Yet The Structure of Scientific Revolutions held the table.

One friend warmed his hands around his tea glass. He looked at the rain beyond the stall.

“Revolution begins when an old order fails.”

I watched steam rise from the frying pan. The smell of gram flour mixed with wet dust.

The rain grew heavier. It came down in thick drops. We ordered another plate of pakoras. Then another round of tea. Nobody wished to leave. The stall had become a small country. Outside it, Karachi disappeared behind the rain.

At last, we stepped into the street.

Some friends found a shared taxi for North Nazimabad. I watched them leave. Their faces passed behind wet glass. The taxi turned at the crossing and vanished into the rain.

I stood alone.

A taxi waited near the corner. Its yellow paint had faded. Water ran along its bonnet. I walked toward it. I bent near the driver’s window and wiped rain from my forehead.

“Salam. Gulshan-e-Iqbal?”

The driver looked at me. His hands rested on the steering wheel. His face had the calm look of a man who had seen many rains.

“Twelve hundred rupees.”

I stared at him. Water ran from my hair into my collar.

“Twelve hundred rupees?”

He nodded.

The rain strengthened. The street emptied. A donkey cart moved through the water. A rickshaw coughed near the crossing. A cart-puller bent under a wet sheet of plastic. The city had begun to withdraw into itself.

I had no choice. I looked once at the dark road and opened the rear door.

“Fine. Let us go.”

The taxi moved through Punjab Colony. Water gathered along the roads. The driver leaned toward his window. He watched the sky. He watched the rain as if it were an old enemy.

I sat silent. The fare stayed in my mind. After some time, I looked at his face in the rear-view mirror.

“Why have you charged so much?”

He kept his eyes on the road. His fingers tightened on the wheel.

“Rain.”

I frowned and looked at the flooded street.

“Rain doubles the fare?”

He glanced at me. The driver raised his left index finger. He looked ahead through the wet windscreen.

“First, you must see.”

I felt irritation rise. I leaned forward.

“See what?”

He pushed his seat back. He pulled the taxi over beside the footpath near Sunset Boulevard. He opened the door and stepped out. I watched him through the side mirror.

He took an old bicycle tube from the boot. He bent near the rear of the taxi. He pushed one end into the silencer. Then he tied the other end high under the bumper. The tube hung there like a small black snake.

He returned. He wiped his hands with an old cloth. He sat behind the wheel. I looked at the tube above the water. My anger weakened.

“You are a clever man.”

He smiled. Then he started the engine.

The taxi moved again. I watched the water break beneath the tyres. Streetlights trembled in the pools. The city seemed to float. Shops stood closed. Their shutters reflected in the water like old photographs.

“How long have you driven?” I asked.

He adjusted the mirror. His eyes remained on the road.

“Since General Zia.”

I looked through the wet windshield. The rain made every light distant.

“And how did Karachi manage rainwater in those days?”

He slowed the taxi near a flooded crossing. He watched the water move across the road.

“Natural waterways were open. Water had a path. It went to the sea.”

I looked at the roads, the houses, and the walls built where water once moved.

“And now?”

He shook his head.

“Now we closed the paths. We built houses. We built roads. We filled the drains.”

I nodded slowly. Rain struck the side of the taxi.

“We chained the water.”

He looked at me through the mirror. A small smile came to his face.

“Yes. Water is chained.”

I watched the rain sweep across the windscreen.

“And the rain?”

He pressed the accelerator gently.

“Rain comes to free it.”

The taxi entered a flooded road. Cars stood in long lines. Their engines ran. No driver dared to switch off the ignition. Water reached the silencers. Some cars shook. Some stopped. Others moved in zigzags toward the higher edge of the road.

The driver pointed ahead.

“Every vehicle fears the water. One engine stops. Then ten stop. Then the whole road dies.”

I watched a car stall near the median. Its driver stepped out into knee-deep water. He stood there with both hands on his head.

“You know this city well.”

The driver gave a short laugh.

“Bas, Saeen. Tajurba aahe. I have lived here for years.”

I looked at the water moving through the street like a lost river.

“What is the solution?”

He looked straight ahead.

“Back to basics.”

I leaned forward.

“What does that mean?”

He lifted one hand from the wheel and pointed toward the dark road.

“Make Karachi like the city of the 1970s.”

For a moment, I saw another Karachi. Fewer cars. Open drains. Long trees along the roads. Rainwater moving quietly toward the sea. A city that had not yet filled every empty place with concrete.

He looked at the water crossing the road.

“Open the natural paths. Let water go where it wants to go. Otherwise, every rain will become a problem.”

We arrived near my flat. The fare returned to my mind. I looked at my wet wallet. Then I looked at him.

“Will you make some concession?”

He turned toward me. A quick smile crossed his face.

“Fine. One thousand rupees.”

I laughed. He laughed too.

I paid him and stepped into the rain.

The road behind me had become a stream. The taxi moved slowly into it. Its bicycle tube rose above the water like a small black flag.

I walked toward my flat. One thousand rupees was not too much that night. In such rain, finding a taxi was luck.

__________________ 

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

The Music and the Mist

The sky held heavy clouds. I woke late. The regular bus on 26th Street past Abdullah Shah Ghazi was gone.

I rushed out from the flat complex. The morning carried a thick gray sheet, and a cold drizzle hit my face. Because the dense clouds blocked the light, my internal clock failed me; I thought it was still dawn.

I ran toward the main road and stood on the edge of the footpath by the Accounts General Office in Gulshan-e-Iqbal. My hand shot up, signalling every taxi heading toward NIPA. Fifteen minutes passed before one car finally pulled over.

I pulled open the heavy passenger door and dropped into the front seat beside the driver.

The interior belonged to another world. A blue cloth covered the dashboard shelf above the steering wheel, absorbing the gray light. Soft cushions lined the seats, and wide cloth blinders shaded the windows. From the rearview mirror hung a silver ornament bearing the name of Allah, which swayed with the vibration of the engine. Down by the gear stick sat an old cassette player, and a small bottle of cologne fixed to the passenger dash filled the cabin with the scent of jasmine.

A low voice rasped from the speakers.

The driver glanced over. “More volume?”

I nodded.

He twisted the dial, and Muni Begum sang her ghazal: Aawargi Mein Had Se Guzar Jaana Chahiye.

“You like her music?” I asked.

The driver kept his eyes on the road. “I only buy the EMI tapes.”

“They have the best catalogue of the classics.”

He reached down and handed me the empty plastic EMI cassette case. I tracked the song titles with my finger.

“My favourite is here,” I pointed. “Ek Bar Muskura Do.”

He pressed the fast-forward button. The plastic gears clicked, and soon the car filled with the heavy vibration of the harmonium. The music took over the space.

“Sharah-e-Faisal is better today,” the driver said, steering through the mist. “The rain demands Muni Begum.”

“How long have you listened to her?”

“Since 1976. She was the queen then.” His grip tightened on the wheel. “Then Zia came. The music stopped on the radio. A dark time for this country.”

Silence returned as the car eventually approached the Do-Talwar roundabout.

I looked through the side window. The grand bungalow of Mumtaz Bhutto passed on the left, and next to it sat the dense concrete of Neelam Colony. As my stop at 26th Street neared, I pulled my shoulder bag close.

The speakers hummed a new verse: Tumhare Sheher Ka Mausam Bada Suhana Lage.

“Here is good.”

The car slowed to a halt. I counted out 650 rupees and handed the paper notes to him.

I stepped out into the air. Above me, the sky swirled in shades of pearl white, deep charcoal, and soft velvet black. The clouds caressed the horizon, and the green dome of Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s shrine rose against the misty backdrop like a painted masterpiece from an ancient romance. The air tasted of salt and fresh rain.

I closed the door and whispered to the wind, “Tumhare Sheher Ka Mausam Bada Suhana Lage.”

_______________________ 

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

 The Short Years

The hot air smelled of rain and diesel. Bunting hung across Saddar. Green and white lights framed the high brick walls of the Sindh Secretariat. The clock on the wall read five.

I took the book by Suhail Lari from the clerk at Thomas and Thomas. Outside, a man leaned against the fender of a car—a taxi. He scraped his boot against the curb.

“Gulshan?” I asked.

He opened the rear door. “Get in.”

He shifted gears. The transmission whined as we skirted the Electronic Market. He turned the wheel hard left, looking at me through the cracked rearview mirror. He cleared his throat.

“Sindhi?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He moved his shoulders against the plastic seat cover. “Hyderabad?”

“Yes.”

He stared at the traffic ahead. “Latifabad Number Seven.”

“When did you come down to Karachi?” I asked.

He blew air through his teeth. “Eighty-three. Maybe eighty-four. I sat in the seventh class.”

The car shook over a pothole. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“The whole family moved,” he said. “Hyderabad felt unsafe.”

“Unsafe for whom?”

“For us. Muhajirs.”

He passed a slow rickshaw.

“I studied well in the eighth class,” he said. “Better than the Karachi boys. The teachers liked me. I had discipline.”

He slowed for a donkey cart, his fingers tapping the dashboard.

“Then matric came. The boys in the street changed me.”

“How changed?”

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “We took Altaf Hussain as our Pir. Our guide. The sector office replaced the school. The party became everything.”

He touched his left earlobe. His hand trembled slightly.

“My father asked about my report card one night. I had nothing to show. I screamed at him. He slapped my face.”

The taxi idled at a red light. The heat inside the cabin grew thick.

“I went straight to the sector office,” he said. “I told the chief that my father hated the party. I told them he insulted the chief.”

He stared at his own reflection in the glass.

“They called my father to the office. A small man. He looked tiny in that room. The sector chief spat insults at him. My father stood there. They gave him no chance to speak.”

“And you?” I asked.

He swallowed hard. “I felt powerful. Then the violence started. The sector became my life.”

“You regret it?”

“The pain stays in my chest,” he said.

“How did you live together after that?”

He touched his earlobe again. “I came home at dawn. I avoided his eyes all the time. I woke at noon; he had already left for the mechanics’ workshop. My brothers had left for school.”

He shifted into second gear.

“One morning my mother sat by my bed. She said my father trembled when I entered the room. She asked me to go back to Hyderabad for a few weeks.”

He gripped the gearstick.

“I told her he should go back to Hyderabad instead.”

“What did she say?”

“She said nothing. She walked out.”

“Did you ever speak to him again?”

“No,” he said.

“What happened?”

“The military operations began,” he said. “The party ordered us to scatter. I fled to Nawabshah. Then Shahpurchakar.”

“When did you return?”

“Eighteen months later.”

“And your father?”

He turned the wipers on to clear the dust from the glass. “He lay sick in bed. My mother had grown frail. My younger brother had quit school to work the lathes.”

“What did you do?”

“I had an eighth-class certificate,” he said. “I needed rupees every day. I rented this car from a neighbor.”

The city noise faded as we reached the bypass. The celebration lights lay behind us.

“I thought driving a taxi meant freedom,” he said. “I had naive ideas. Movie ideas. I thought I would carry rich men who would leave briefcases full of cash in the back seat.”

He wiped the sweat from his neck.

“I thought a wealthy woman would sit back there. She would look at me. She would love me and take me away from this.”

“And instead?”

“Instead, the hours grew longer,” he said. “Passengers argue over paisas. The streets flooded with new cars. My back aches.”

“What now?” I asked.

He stopped the taxi by the curb in Gulshan. He did not look back.

“I am a loser,” he said. “I just pull the days along.”

________________________ 

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

A City of Deaf Men

The clock on the wall read five. The winter air held a damp chill. Gray light fell across the concrete, and darkness came early from the coast.

The wind felt good on my skin. It blew soft from the south, cool and steady. Thick clouds climbed out of the Arabian Sea, swallowing the last blue of the afternoon.

At the edge of Neelam Colony, near 26th Street, I spotted a yellow cab idling by the curb.

I raised five fingers in the air to flag the driver.

“Six hundred rupees to Gulshan-e-Iqbal.”

The driver leaned across the passenger seat and spat out the window. He held up five fingers, then added a thumb. “Five hundred and fifty.”

I nodded to settle it. The door clicked shut.

The cab rolled into the traffic. We crawled through the tight streets of Saddar and turned onto M.A. Jinnah Road. At the Numaish intersection, the world grew quiet inside the car. Outside, the city roared. The driver kept his right thumb flat on the steering wheel, right over a large plastic button. Every ten seconds, he pressed it down. A blast like a ship in a fog tore through the glass.

The thumb came down again. The noise shook the dashboard.

I pointed a finger toward the wheel. “That horn is too loud for this car.”

The driver did not turn his head. He stared straight through the cracked windshield, his jaw tight. “Men are deaf here.”

I waved a hand toward the sea of steel outside. “All of them?”

The driver gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “I drive every day. I know.”

By the Old Sabzi Mandi, the road died. The wide road shrank to a single lane of metal boxes stood bumper to bumper, crawling like beetles in the dust.

Suddenly, a group of men stepped from the curb. They did not look left. They did not look right. They walked straight into the path of vehicles.

The driver slammed his foot down. The tires bit the dirt with a hard screech. His thumb pounded the button three times. The horn ripped the air open.

Ahead, three traffic constables stood under a dead streetlight. They watched the smoke rise from the exhaust pipes. They did not move their feet.

The driver rolled his window down an inch. He blew the horn right next to them.

One cop raised a limp palm and shook it once. He looked away.

The driver turned his torso, his eyes wide and dark in the dashboard light. “Watch.”

He let the clutch out. The cab crept into a thick knot of shoppers. The people moved like loose gravel in a stream, drifting back and forth. Two men bumped hard against the front hood of our car. They did not blink. They did not look at the glass.

The driver hit the brake. He held the horn down for five long seconds. The crowd split around the car like water around a rock, faces blank, eyes on the ground.

The driver open palms up. “You see?”

I gave a slow nod. That was my only answer.

The driver gripped the wheel again, his voice dropping an octave. He touched the lobes of both ears with his left hand. “If the car taps their skin, they wake up. They scream. They break the glass. If a man falls under the wheel, they bring the oil. They burn the car. If you stay inside to save your bread, they burn you too.”

The air in the cab grew heavy.

The driver looked sideways, waiting for me to speak. “Is it not better to blow the horn? Is it not better than the fire?”

I kept my mouth shut. Silence filled the space between our seats.

The driver looked back at the road. He nodded to himself. “It is better.”

The cab neared my destination in Gulshan. The neon green of a sweet shop lit the driver’s face.

I reached out and touched the dashboard. “The next U-turn is fine.”

The car stopped by a pile of gravel. I paid him.

I opened the door to the cold night air. One foot touched the pavement.

Behind the glass, the driver’s thumb came down hard. The horn gave one sharp, deafening blast into the dark. It echoed off the concrete walls of the shops.

I watched the cab pull away into the dust, its red taillights small and dim. I could not tell if that last blast was for fun or from a deep fear. The sound stayed in my ears long after the road was clear.

____________________ 

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17,

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